


Tender Mercies

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Dark fic, Gen, Undercover, issues related to non-con, meeting fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While undercover, Bodie saves the life of a copper named Doyle -- but in such a way that the man might never forgive him.</p><p>Then he finds himself assigned to work with him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks for the beta, suggestions and encouragement to [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/). All errors remain my own, and the characters are, of course, not mine. I make no money from this. -Allie

**Working undercover on a dangerous mission, Bodie will do whatever it takes to save the life of a curly-headed copper. Even if the man hates Bodie afterwards...**

 

Warnings: Angst + some disturbing content + mush

Adult Content-- Rated R

Tender Mercies

by Allie

_“The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” - Proverbs 12:10_

 

It was after midnight. Bodie was trying not to yawn, sipping coffee and playing cards to stay awake. The talk was desultory, bored. Instead of the excitement of the upcoming bank job, he heard only the grumbling of over-tired men who had little say in what they did next and hated the wait.

The abandoned warehouse was cold, and Bodie could see his breath, even inside near the little fire they’d built. Anyone glancing in would see homeless men in scruffy clothes sleeping or playing cards to pass the night watches. Some of the men grumbled quietly in their sleep. Bodie’s hands, despite the fingerless gloves, were cold. He rubbed them together and blew on them; it would do no good if they were too cold to use. He had been cold in Africa at times, but Bodie was now reminded of just how cold it could get in England.

Footsteps. He whirled around, automatically grabbing his gun. Bodie relaxed slightly when he saw it was one of the outside guards, the first line of defence. He stayed alert when he realised the man was dragging someone with him at gunpoint.

The others had also whirled around and went for their guns at the sound of the footsteps, though slightly less fast. He caught a couple of looks about that, both cautious and impressed, and allowed himself a small, grim smile. It would seem that his reputation had preceded him, but it was good to have backup for your reputation. Especially if you were hoping nobody found out you’d been in the SAS since acquiring that reputation.

Taking the lead, as he’d been trying to do all along, Bodie rose. “What did you catch?”

“A varmint—copper.” The guard, named, infuriatingly enough Brody, flung the man to the ground. He landed on his knees, but immediately scrambled to his feet. He wore a uniform, though he’d lost his hat, and his hair was wild and curly. Slim build, quick reflexes. The man struck out at Bodie with one foot in a karate-like move as he rose, and Bodie dodged it and kicked back, sending the man sprawling back to the floor easily. He might not have countered the move so quickly if he hadn’t had some karate training of his own.

A vicious kick from Brody sent the copper curling on his side in silent agony, clutching his stomach, legs flexing with the pain.

“Did he hear anything?” asked Bodie, looking down at the man whose face twisted in agony. How could he get out of this without having to let someone kill a cop?

“Who cares?” said Lemmuel, the madman. “Let’s gut him.” To illustrate, he pulled his Bowie knife.

“Got a better idea,” said Bodie.

He didn’t care for cops, but he hadn’t gone undercover to let someone kill one in front of him. There’d been enough death already. Too many bank robberies, too many people dead. Cowley wanted it stopped—and he wanted the mastermind as well. Bodie wasn’t here to allow more killing. He was here to stop it—to protect civilians, even coppers.

Before anyone could stop him, he moved forward and wrenched the copper to his feet. “What’s your name, sunshine?” He slapped the man on both sides of his face, hard enough to make him flinch from it automatically, eyelids fluttering, jaw twitching.

Had to make this look good. He jerked the man closer, up against him, hard, so their bodies met and there was no space between them. “Well? Don’t have all night, sunshine.” He ran one finger down the broken cheekbone on one side of the copper’s face, both felt and saw the rising panic in him, the quickening of heaved breaths, the fear and revulsion mixed in his eyes. “Or maybe I do,” he said in a soft, cold voice.

“DC Doyle,” snapped the copper. His gaze was belligerent but frightened, as if he already knew what Bodie planned.

“Good enough for me, DC Doyle.” Hauling the man up by the scruff of his neck, he turned and walked away with him. “Don’t start the party without me, mates.” He gave the men a departing wink. They stared after him, some looking disturbed or disgusted, some smirking. It was obvious to everyone why he was leaving.

As they disappeared into the darkness, the even colder recesses of the building, Doyle tried again to fight him off, slipping around in his grasp like an eel, all wiry limbs and karate moves. Bodie shook him roughly and stuck a gun in his ribs. “Easy sunshine,” he said, his voice soft now. “It’s not what you think. I’m saving your life.”

“So why is it I don’t feel grateful?” asked the voice that held barely sheathed fear and was still heavy with pain.

“I’m undercover,” explained Bodie. “CI5. You’ve heard of that mob, haven’t you? Fairly new. Run by one George Cowley. And he’s put me undercover to stop this mob. Now you think you can cooperate and help me keep you alive, or do you want them to have their way with you?”

Doyle cleared his throat. “W-what do I have to do?”

He led Doyle around a piling and some old boxes. It was dark here, out of range but not hearing for the men. A good place for a quick fumble. Doyle turned to him, still breathing hard, heart thudding hard in his chest. Bodie could feel it, because he was keeping the man close. For all his talk about cooperation, he knew the copper was unlikely to trust him and would rather make a run for it than risk Bodie’s doubtful mercies. He couldn’t blame the man, but he just couldn’t let it happen. If Doyle got away, they’d either kill him or abort the mission: neither was acceptable to Bodie.

“Help me make it sound like I’m having my wicked way with you. Brutal as possible.” He slid his gun into the back of his waistband and put both arms around Doyle. “Unless you can’t act and need some help getting started—” He felt the slim body jerk away from him, breath quickening even further, and the trembling all through the man’s body.

“I can act, I can act.”

“There you go, sunshine,” said Bodie, petting his arms. “Now scream for me.”

“H-how? Afraid or—or hurt?”

“Your choice, sunshine. But we gotta go the whole way. You can beg or not, your choice.” He squeezed the man’s arms, hard, trying to push back the impulse to comfort. “I’m not gonna hurt you—unless you make me.” He wasn’t the least bit uneasy about slapping a cop around a little to make it realistic. But he didn’t say that, leaving the threat to hang ugly and vague in the air between them.

Immediately, Doyle began to act. He was pretty good, groaning, crying out, whimpering, and then falling abruptly silent. Bodie took up his part, with a few grunts and finally an orgasmic sound of twisted pleasure from low in his throat. Doyle was still trembling, his whole body stressed.

“You did well,” said Bodie. “It’s all right. Now we go back. Keep your eyes down. Muss your clothes. Wait—let’s get rid of your belt and jacket.”

“Can’t I just go? I could fetch help. Pretend to shoot me and I’ll sneak out,” said Doyle.

“No. They won’t believe that. They’ll need to see a body and if they don’t, I’m busted. Now come on. This is the hard part.” He pulled Doyle after him, back towards the light, gun at his side. Doyle moved unwillingly, haltingly, his whole body reluctant, his gaze down. Without his discarded jacket, he shivered even harder. He’d begun to sniffle a little as well.

Bodie stopped to run a hand down Doyle’s side and chest just before they reached the fire, and Doyle reacted the way he wanted, shivering and flinching away from his touch as though repulsed. Bodie leaned in and spoke quietly in Doyle’s ear. “Good, sunshine. Make it look good.”

The men around the fire saw, and waited stiffly for his arrival. They looked at Bodie. They looked at Doyle. Their eyes held the knowledge of what he’d supposedly done, and the various ways they took it. Some looked repulsed and tried to hide it. Some looked savagely glad to see a copper hurt. Some managed to almost show no expression at all.

“Any more coffee?” asked Bodie brightly. “I’m fucked out.” And he gave his most cherubic and sweet smile. Anyone looking at his face abruptly averted their gaze. Someone gave a hoarse laugh.

“Er, think you should finish him off?” asked Brody, with a lot more respect in his voice than he’d had earlier when talking to Bodie. He sounded as though he almost said ‘sir.’

“Nah, he’s mine,” said Bodie casually. He sat on a crate and pulled Doyle down next to him. The policeman crumpled awkwardly on the floor, pulled against Bodie’s side. He was still shaking. Bodie could feel the anger and fear rolling off him in equal measures. He slid his gun into the front of his jeans and kept at least one hand casually on the cop. That hand alternately gripped, caressed, fondled, and controlled. He kept Doyle in that crouching position uncomfortably for long minutes, the man sitting like a crumpled spider, his muscles probably crying out for relief. Whether from good acting or actual need, the cop began to hiccup. Bodie slapped him for it, and he jumped, and trembled visibly.

“Want to let someone else have a turn?” asked Lemmuel, far too casually, his eyes bright with dark intent.

“Nah. He’s mine now,” said Bodie. “Aren’t you sunshine?” He tugged Doyle’s hair up so the man’s eyes would meet his. They were green, and showed every emotion running through him. Bodie kept his face blank to keep from trying to reassure the man, as he suddenly longed to.

“I’m yours now,” said Doyle in a flat, cracking voice that trembled.

 _You are a very good actor, son,_ thought Bodie, and let him shift position finally, pulling him to huddle against Bodie’s side a little and stroking his side. At length the others began to ignore Doyle’s presence and go back to their cards and sleep or talk and coffee. But Bodie could feel an awareness in the air, a charged atmosphere. It sobered everyone, frightening some while exciting others, and disgusting most of the men who tried to hide it. None of them was about to even think of crossing Bodie.

After a while he turned and hauled Doyle up by the scruff of his neck. “Come on. Round two,” he said with a leer.

“No—not again!” protested Doyle, and received another slap for it, though not as hard as it looked.

“Cooperate and I’ll go easier this time,” said Bodie, and led his captive away into the darkness.

He kept a firm hold on Doyle, who tried once again to run away in the darkness. “Please let me go.”

“Can’t. Sorry, sunshine.” He held Doyle close to him till the copper stopped struggling. “I told you why. Think about it. Now I’ve got to seem fond of you to keep you alive and keep anyone else from touching you. I’ll have you tied up for the job, but I’ll make them as loose as I can. Get free if you’re able and call George Cowley. Can you remember a phone number? Good.” Bodie gave it to him. “If you can’t get free, sit tight and I’ll be back to spring you. Now give them some fireworks.”

“W-what sort?” asked Doyle miserably.

“Up to you. Am I falling in love with you after my own twisted way, or am I still a sadist?”

“Suppose I’d rather the former, if you’d just quit fondling me!” He was trembling with anger this time.

“Easy, sunshine. You’ve never done undercover before?”

“Not as a rape victim—with a supposed CI5 man,” he hissed. “Your mob is supposed to be the good guys.”

“Not really. We get the job done, that’s all. A lot of folks would call us villains. Should hear the press scream. Can be part of it later, if you want.” He began stroking curls deliberately. “Now make it good, sunshine, or I’ll give you some incentive,” he said in a steely voice.

“Just stop touching me,” said Doyle in a kind of undertone of teeth-grinding agony.

“Then I’ll hold a gun on you. Make it good.” He pulled his gun, held Doyle by the arm, and stood away from him, aiming at his heart.

Doyle made it good.

#

Bodie woke on the cold, hard ground feeling warmer than he had any right to expect. The man in his arms was still, but awake. Bodie wondered if he’d slept at all. Bodie stirred, nudged Doyle, and sat up. He got a cup of coffee, drank half and held the rest to Doyle’s mouth, feeding it to him carefully but pushing his hands down when he tried to take it for himself. Then Bodie got up, taking the other man’s arm and pulling him after him without a word. The others watched him go. It was nearly dawn. Wouldn’t be dark for much longer.

“Take a slash if you need it. But run and I’ll have to shoot you. I gave you enough warnings.” Bodie released him and emptied his own bladder. Shortly he heard Doyle doing the same.

He brought Doyle back and proceeded to tie him up with a sort of tender attention. He felt as dirty as Doyle’s haggard face made him seem, but all the same he gave the copper a parting caress. “I’ll be back for you, sunshine,” he said in an intimate voice. Then he was all business, hard man turning to his mob, wanting to know the details and his part in it.

They told him, and he could almost hear the copper’s ears flapping, soaking it all in. Wondered if he’d tied the ropes loose enough, if Doyle would get free. If Doyle would call Cowley as asked.

Shortly they left, armed to the teeth, leaving Doyle behind with only a couple of glances back at him. How wilted he looked, and rumpled and slender and vulnerable. Bodie hoped his plan had worked—both parts of it. That Doyle would get free from his bindings, and if he couldn’t that nobody else would dare touch him if Bodie wasn’t the first one back.

#

The white van thundered to the bank. The men pulled ski masks over their faces and looked at one another, carrying large weapons. Bodie’s heart speeded up. Memories of jobs in the past came back to him—not bank jobs, but mercenary jobs and soldier jobs. Not all had ended well. Each had this mixture of euphoria and fear when it was finally time for action. He needed to keep control of the situation. He needed to make sure no life was lost during this robbery.

Cowley wanted to be able to follow the money. He wanted to trace it to the top man, the one in charge. He also wanted to crack their plans. And he didn’t know where they’d be hitting next. The robbers had proved remarkably adaptable and able to outthink even Cowley himself. So Cowley had sent Bodie undercover to go along and find out how.

“I want him,” said Cowley, smacking a fist against a palm. “You’re to get him for me, Bodie. Follow that money!”

Bodie was very well aware that he might fail. Cowley might have to settle for simply catching the people involved in the actual robbery and recovering the money. But he also knew there must be no life lost in this venture. That was his job, his responsibility.

When it all went wrong, he had the sinking feeling it was going to wind up on his head.

Inside the bank, Lemmuel, the madman, started waving his gun around, then fired into the ceiling.

“No shooting! That’s an order!” Bodie grabbed his gun and gave him a shove, glaring at him, lips compressing in anger. At the first shot, one of the tellers started screaming. Bodie knew the men had hair-trigger nerves at this point, and he worried what they would do about it.

“Let’s take the money and go!” he ordered.

“Or what, you’ll rape us? Come on, man, you’ve had all the fun so far!” Without his gun, Lemmuel seemed to have nothing to hold him back. He headed towards the counter and vaulted it. The teller screamed louder.

“I said, that’s enough!” said Bodie. Lemmuel ignored him. Heart hammering with adrenaline, anger and fear, Bodie aimed his gun at the man. “Get out of it.”

Lemmuel was yanking at the shirt of the teller, a blond woman who seemed to be going into shock. “Leave it!” said Bodie. With the sick feeling that this was all his fault, something he’d started, he aimed and fired at Lemmuel’s shoulder. A clean shot, the bullet going through him into an expensive wooden desk.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Civilians screamed. People burst into the building, shouting “MI5! Lay down your weapons!” The shooting... or something... had drawn them.

“Don’t shoot!” shouted Bodie in exasperation, both to the robbers and to the officers. But it was too late...

Flinging himself down, he barely missed a hail of bullets. Bloody amateurs.... CI5 wouldn’t go bursting in like this for a bank job! But the whole country was on edge from these robberies. They must be overzealous to stop them. He heard a shriek as Brody fell, and another body hit the floor near him. The civilians had all had the sense to duck down behind the doubtful safety of the grille, but Bodie had nothing.

“I give up!” he shouted.

“Throw your gun away!” shouted a man with a gun. Scowling horribly, Bodie did. It had all gone wrong. Cowley would have his head! But he’d had to shoot Lemmuel. And really, these men were probably on their way already.

A gun barked, and something shoved Bodie back, like a hard punch in the arm. He looked down, and saw he’d been shot. “I bloody _gave_ up already!”

Then the shooting was over, and officers swarmed forward. Someone shoved the dead man next to him, then moved to him, dragged Bodie’s hands behind his back and cuffed him. He didn’t bother saying anything about being in CI5. He didn’t have his ID with him, of course. He just scowled horribly, and grimaced at the pain in his arm. It was really starting to hurt.

He glimpsed a slim man bounding forward, curls bouncing, searching the bodies, his face anxious.

“You idiot. I told you to call Cowley!” barked Bodie.

The copper’s gaze snapped to his. “I did, then I reported in!” shouted the angry copper. He dashed forward, anxiety springing to his face, as Bodie felt the world going black. He was quite disappointed; he hadn’t finished shouting at Doyle.

#

Bodie was having a dream. It was a nice dream. He felt something warm and hot trickling, and then he was cold and someone was slapping his face, telling him sharply to wake up, wake up!

Bodie opened his eyes. It seemed to take far too much effort. There was the copper, sprung as if from his dream. He looked harried and anxious. “Wake up!” he repeated, and then drew back. He yanked on something, and there was a tight scream of pain around Bodie’s upper arm. He blinked and looked down. A tourniquet. He was bleeding hard. Doyle had uncuffed him and propped him up against a bullet-scarred wall.

“Stay there and wait for the ambulance,” growled Doyle, and gave him a quick slap on the other arm and then stepped over him, long-legged and scruffier than ever.

Bodie closed his eyes, remembering: the dash into the bank, ski masks on. The failure.

Now as if from a dream, he heard Cowley’s voice close by, an angry, rasping burr telling everyone where to go and what to do. It was a very reassuring sound when not aimed at him. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

#

He woke next time in hospital, pleasantly full of painkillers, relaxed and at peace with the world. He smiled woozily up at Cowley while being alternately scolded and grudgingly praised for his quick thinking, until Cowley gave both up and told him gruffly to get his rest, lad. The small, dry, surprisingly strong hand reached out and gripped his forearm, and then Cowley went away.

The next time he woke up, he was more lucid, in more pain, and Cowley’s voice, with exactly the same lectures, was far less welcome. Bodie endured it like a good soldier, trying to look a bit pathetic to shorten the flow of his boss’s words. Cowley was not taken in.

“Well, we’ve lost him,” said Cowley at last, his mouth thinning. “I hope you’re happy, Bodie! If you’d been a bit quicker and fetched the money away before those... idiots encroached on my bank job, we’d have caught the man responsible!”

“Yes sir. At least we caught the robbers, sir.”

“Yes, with their hands in the till—literally—and the mastermind still safely hidden! You’re lucky to be alive, Bodie. Only one other man is.”

Bodie thought he would feel much luckier if Cowley would end the lecture and leave.

“I’ll interrogate Brody,” continued Cowley, “but Five got him first, and the man’s a pro. I might need another method.”

“Suppose we’ll catch the big man next time, sir?”

Cowley glared at him. “No. I suspect he’s far too canny for us, and he’ll not hit the Home Counties again! As for you... och, get well quickly, Bodie! We’ve a lot of work to do.”

“Yes sir.”

Cowley stopped as he was about to leave the room.

“By the way, that was a brutal but effective way to handle the policeman. Apparently quite effective. For the record, what did you think of him?”

His voice was mild and casual, which meant this was important. Bodie shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Little hard to tell in the circumstances, but he seemed capable and on the ball—better than most, would like to see him under less volatile circumstances, how he’d handle himself. I think he’d be easy to underestimate.”

“I suppose that means you won’t do it,” said Cowley in silky tones that were pleased. “I’ve taken him on at CI5 on a provisional basis.”

His gape was all that Cowley could possibly have wished. Bodie got his face under control at last. “If you think best, sir,” he said sulkily. _You obviously didn’t want my opinion after all._

“I predict he’ll be through with his training before you’re ready for working on the street again.”

“Yes sir,” said Bodie miserably. He could almost tell what was coming next. For his sins, he would be assigned the angry copper to ease into CI5. He’d have to play the good guy this time and test the copper at the same time. He almost groaned aloud.

“Yes, Bodie. I can see you understand. You’ll be his partner—to begin with, at least.” He smiled, gentler this time. “It will do you good, Bodie, and him as well, perhaps.”

“Yes sir,” said Bodie. He compressed his lips. “Sir, may I ask why you chose him?”

“Can’t you answer your own question, Bodie?” asked Cowley very mildly. He smiled a wintery smile. “He was able to work undercover with you without warning or preparation. He handled himself in a situation he could not but find humiliating and retained enough sense to get loose, then call me as instructed—and enough humanity to come back and help you.”

Bodie blinked, offended. It was not so much what Cowley said as his tone—dry, acerbic, seeming to indicate that Bodie hadn’t handled it right. Had somehow lacked ‘humanity.’

“I had to intimidate him a little bit, sir. You can always act better if it’s realistic.”

“I should think it was realistic enough with the dangerous situation. However, I’ll say no more about it. Working with Doyle will be your reward or punishment. Get well soon, Bodie.”

_Smirking into his lips, the canny Scot! Thinks he’s so funny..._

Bodie settled back down to rest and recover, not best pleased.

While not of a naturally introspective nature, Bodie had had a few crossroads in his life where he really needed to stop and take stock of the situation, and himself. He had not lost that ability and the boring, lengthy recovery left him plenty of time to do so once again. Had he gone too far? Had he secretly enjoyed intimidating a policeman—never his fondest of allies—and done more than he needed?

It was a surprise that Doyle had come as backup, and he had to admit to himself that he hadn’t even expected to have his call made to Cowley as instructed. Perhaps he’d underestimated the copper after all.

By the time he was ready to return to desk duty, he’d figured out that the pairing was a test for both of them. Cowley wanted to see if he could win his way back to a place of trust from his heavy handed tactics, if indeed they had been, and to see if Doyle could get past the humiliating experience to work with someone he was bound to feel some antagonism and distrust towards.

Cowley always did like to get extra for his pound’s worth.

#

Knowing what his co-workers were like, it didn’t come as a surprise to Bodie to find out that his new nickname was ‘the Rapist.’ It pissed him off, but it didn’t surprise him. He decided to ignore it and it would go away; they just wanted a reaction from him. He wondered if anyone else had suffered such an ignoble fate for saving a policeman’s life.

It took him two days to figure out that ‘Vicky’ was short for Victim, the new nickname for Doyle. Not, however, to his face. He was referred to a fair amount around the restroom, how was Vicky doing in his training, that sort of thing, full of humour and the natural curiosity about a new agent. Bodie wished they’d leave it alone with the nicknames, but said nothing.

He saw Doyle the first week he was back on desk duty with his arm still healing. Doyle happened to go through the rest room area. He was wearing tight jeans and a green t-shirt that fit his body snugly. He looked quite different than he had in a uniform. He didn’t look at all like a cop. His hair was wildly curly, and quite clean. And his green eyes still showed every emotion on his face. He saw Bodie, and stopped.

“Hullo,” said Bodie, and tried a smile. “How you getting on?”

Before the shutters came down over Doyle’s eyes Bodie glimpsed distrust, hurt and bitter anger. “Okay,” said Doyle’s deep voice.

While the restroom was empty of other agents, Bodie needed to say this. He smiled again, quite nicely. “Come on. I didn’t hurt you, did I? I was saving your life.” He tried sticking a hand out to shake.

Doyle looked at him coldly, and walked away. Bodie sighed. So, he held a grudge, the little toad. Nice way to start a partnership. Stupid Cowley. Stupid Doyle.

_Stupid Bodie...._

He thought again of the little blows, tugs, caresses and intimidations. Of pulling his gun on the man. It had all been necessary—or had seemed so at the time. But he supposed it would be difficult to get over it if it had happened to him. Doyle probably thought he was a pig.

_Have to show you different, sunshine._

He’d go out of his way. Be a good partner, at least till he’d helped Cowley prove if Doyle was fit for CI5.

He closed his eyes again and replayed the scene from the beginning, this time with Doyle dressed in his informal jeans and t-shirt. It made him wince a little, to realise some of his viciousness had been, not just from necessity or fear and being undercover, but may have been directed at the uniform. He’d despised policemen for a long time as crooked, jumped-up fascists. But he’d read Doyle’s file and Doyle wasn’t. He was a good, straight copper. He would go places even without CI5. Bodie couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he thought he’d have gone easier on Doyle if he weren’t a cop.

But either way, the others would probably have tried to kill him. Perhaps it really had been necessary, his heavy-handed tactics. He found himself hoping so, and that the cop would come round to see it.

#

Bodie made an effort to be friends, but the copper didn’t give him an inch. For one thing, he wasn’t in much: always off training with Macklin or going to one of Cowley’s lectures. Then he was working on real cases, and Bodie was still in a sling, chained to his desk. It made him fume inside. Hated to be kept out of things, and to see Doyle walking off talking animatedly with Jax and Anson was almost more than he could stand. As if Doyle were a real agent already! Maybe Cowley hadn’t needed his help with Doyle after all. Maybe he just wanted to punish Bodie....

At last—at last!—the day came when Bodie was certified fit for active duty...and sent right back to Macklin.

Partway through his training Doyle returned, ragged and irritable, for more training as well. Macklin was being quite rough on Bodie (expectedly so), and running him through a variety of drills. Not content with simply testing his arm and aim, he tested Bodie thoroughly in every area.

While holding a stopwatch and timing him tackling an assault course, Macklin frequently derided Bodie as too slow, losing his edge, which Bodie knew he wasn’t. Bodie was hoping that Doyle would take some of the brunt off him, dividing Macklin’s tender attentions in two, but of course, Macklin began to pair them for his tests.

He had them both fighting each other and completing courses side by side. And two man team fighting. For all Doyle’s cold disdain of Bodie, he always performed adequately. He was a ferocious fighter, deceptively slim-looking for the punch he packed, and well-versed in karate moves. Bodie couldn’t get out of a punch-up with him without getting some pretty good lumps and bruises.

The green in Doyle’s eyes burned fiercely with a fire that said no one was ever going to have him at a disadvantage, he would never be completely powerless again. Bodie didn’t think it all had to do with him, but he knew some of it did. It seemed to make Doyle stronger. He should be grateful, really, for whatever small part Bodie had played in making him strong.

He wasn’t, of course. Never spoke to Bodie unless it couldn’t be helped, for their teamwork. Avoided him, didn’t look at him unless necessary and then not for long. Or else he glared straight into his eyes, showing no signs of backing down. He was a shirty customer, and Bodie didn’t know how the others had managed to get along with him so well.

One day Jax stopped by to give a message to Macklin. He also stopped and talked with Doyle briefly. Bodie watched from afar, incredulous to see the smiles they gave each other, Doyle’s big and white and cheesy, lighting up his whole face, Jax’s slow and warm as his laughter. Doyle returned at a half-run to complete the obstacle course with Bodie, the smile dying off his face as he approached till he was cold and hard, all business.

Doyle saw Bodie watching rather sarcastically, and said in his deep grumpy voice, “What?”

“Do you hold a grudge forever, sunshine?” asked Bodie.

Doyle winced, and raised a finger at him threateningly. “Call me sunshine just once more, mate, just once more.”

Bodie raised his hands, backing away mockingly. “Fine—petal. I saved your life, you know.” He realised he wanted Doyle to acknowledge that. Wanted him to say the violence and intimidation that had been required were no big deal, hadn’t mattered.

“I’m not sulking, if that’s what you think,” said Doyle crisply, in a cold voice. “I know you did. I simply don’t want to have anything to do with you again.”

“Tell Cowley then,” said Bodie, abruptly, and realised that his speed of reply and tone made it obvious he felt the same way. Probably sounded as though he despised Doyle. He made an effort to soften his words. “Look, we’re never going to make a great team, so let’s get out of it as soon as possible.”

“Fine with me. Cowley made it pretty clear that I have no choice right now. I want to be in this mob, so I’m stuck with you.”

He brushed past Bodie, his curls bouncing a little, his steps very firm and his back very straight. He bumped Bodie’s shoulder out of the way, arrogantly dismissive.

“Look, you! I’ve have it up to here with your battered virgin routine.” Bodie caught his arm and swung him round.

The effect was immediate, Doyle moving so fast Bodie couldn’t even see what he did, pain blossoming in his arm as it was twisted away from Doyle and shoved around behind Bodie’s back, high and painful, all in one swift movement. He’d thought he was too good to fall for a move like that, but Doyle was fast.

Bodie moved forward and down, dropping to his knees to escape the grip, and whirled to retaliate. But Doyle released him and snapped back, looking down at Bodie with a cold-eyed sneer. “Keep your hands to yourself, _petal,_ ” said Doyle, his voice dripping with distain, and walked away.

Blood rushed to Bodie’s head. His first urge was to run after Doyle, beat him, and put his hands round that arrogant neck and squeeze. His second was like a rush of cold water, a painful realisation of how it felt when someone hurt you and you couldn’t fight back properly.

He’d experienced it before, of course, but not often. It hadn’t occurred to him to associate this raging, helpless feeling with Doyle. To him it had been undercover work, to Doyle it had been ... this feeling.

He scrambled to his feet and started after Doyle, his steps long and angry, his face hard. “I’d take it back if I could. Maybe even let them kill you,” he snapped. “Like that, would you?”

“You’re telling me that’s the only thing you could do? You didn’t have any options here?” Doyle whirled to snarl at him. “You just had to go through all that, and make it quite obvious that if I didn’t play along, you’d do it for real?”

“I wouldn’t have.” Bodie felt his mouth turning down in something like a sulk. “Just helping you act, that’s all.”

Doyle laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, well, thanks a _ton,_ mate. Not like it haunts my dreams or anything.” Then he looked as though he hadn’t meant to say that.

Bodie took a deep breath. “Look. I said I’d take it back if I could. What more do you want?”

“You could say you’re fucking sorry,” snapped Doyle, his voice cracking, and he turned and walked quickly away, probably before he could embarrass himself further.

Bodie compressed his lips. He’d have said sorry—guilt making you do strange things—if Doyle had stayed one moment longer.

He went in the opposite direction, feeling rotten and angry. Doyle was an arse, and far too sensitive. Doyle was a whiny little girl.

And then Bodie thought that if it had been a girl who’d stumbled on the warehouse, he’d have treated her differently, even if he did the exact same bluff. He’d have talked to her and comforted her, getting her to understand and cooperate, using the least possible bodily intimidation at every point, and not the most. That made him feel worse than ever, and angrier of course, as well.

It should be different for a man. Of course it should. But it wasn’t; in some ways it would be worse for a straight man (which as far as he could tell, Doyle was) to have to endure the touching and intimate intimidations.

Girls weren’t likely to complain about Bodie at any point, especially if he turned on the charm. But he hadn’t even tried to make Doyle less frightened.

He thought of slapping Doyle for hiccupping. Such a small thing. In character, he’d thought. Necessary. But had he perhaps just wanted to slap a cop, and found that slim, frightened man in his power too hard to resist?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He went to bed in a foul mood, and woke up in a worse one. Today Macklin had devised a new torture for them, obviously to deal with the fracture in the ‘team.’  
  
He set them to three-legged races.   
  
Well, not exactly, but close enough. They had to run the obstacle course again, this time with Doyle’s left and Bodie’s right legs tied together.   
  
“Teamwork,” said Macklin, and that was all, his unholy gleeful smile looking positively diabolical. Bodie glared at him.   
  
Doyle was long-legged, but slightly shorter than Bodie, even with his curls. His leg felt long and slim. They were a mismatch. He felt the wire-tight tension in Doyle’s frame, being smack up against him for the first time since Bodie had gone to sleep restraining the man in his arms.  
  
Doyle glared at him, glare turned up to full force, then put an arm round Bodie’s waist. Bodie returned the gesture, knowing it was necessary but hating the way he could feel Doyle bracing himself for it, as if contact with Bodie was unbearably repulsive.  
  
“Take it easy on me, petal. It’s me first three-legged race.”  
  
Doyle looked like he wanted to spit in response to Bodie’s grin, but instead he just turned his head forward and ignored him. _Snubbed by my partner in a three-legged race. Hard to do,_ thought Bodie.  
  
They began the run, Macklin timing them and shouting abuse when they stumbled, almost in synch, and barely managed to recover before falling. They were ill-matched, Doyle’s fast, lighter frame held back by Bodie’s muscular strength, everything about their speed and style of attack different. Bodie was inhibited on the climbing section by Doyle—who was too slow—and he held up Doyle on several of the other areas.   
  
Doyle hissed in frustration, lost his temper and called Bodie names. Bodie’s face set harder and harder. He didn’t say a word. The bonds on their legs chafed and hurt them with each wrench where they weren’t in synch—which was most of the time. Doyle’s arm round his waist gripped too roughly, one hand clenched on some of the shirt and flesh of Bodie’s side and starting to hurt.   
  
Bodie squeezed extra hard in return and his partner whirled on him suddenly, still bound to him so he almost knocked Bodie over. He swung a blow at him with his free hand and connected, open-handed, with Bodie’s cheek and neck. It stung and made him blink and jerk back. Heat crept up his neck and he lunged back. “Listen, sunshine—” He grabbed the hand, grabbed Doyle and shook him, hard. “I’ve had just about enough of you—”  
  
Doyle tried to wrench free and only succeed in knocking them both over. Bodie fell on top and felt Doyle still squirming beneath him, fighting that useless fight to get away before they untied themselves.   
  
“Hope you’re happy, you’ve wrecked the test. Hold still and I’ll untie you!” he hissed, backing away from another blow to the face and blinking. “Think I enjoy this?”  
  
“Yes I bloody do!” Doyle tried to scratch his face open since he couldn’t get room to swing.   
  
Bodie caught his wrists, slammed his elbows hard into the ground, and released him. “Now stay still!” He bent to untie their aching legs, his fingers thick and clumsy with the cold, fumbling in his anger and haste. Beneath him Doyle’s chest heaved and he was making little gulping sounds.   
  
Finally Bodie got them free, rolled off Doyle, and climbed to his feet in one smooth movement. He held down a hand to help Doyle to his feet. Doyle slapped it away and glared at him, fear, hatred, and revulsion in his eyes. He rose on his own and made another lunge for Bodie.   
  
He’d obviously lost all reason. Bodie could see by the way Doyle held his elbows that they were hurting, too. He backed away, not wanting to fight a madman and lose, or win by having to hurt Doyle even more. There seemed no way he could get this right.   
  
Doyle ran at him again and Bodie dodged aside, and then took off at a steady, loping run for the end of the course, their assignment long forgotten.   
  
Doyle trailed him the whole way, fast enough but unable to keep up with Bodie’s military-trained, expert dodging. He aimed punches and kicks, but each one slowed him down, nullifying his greater speed. The convulsive, gasping, gulping sounds he was making also seemed to be affecting him. He harried Bodie all the way to the end of the course, but Bodie didn’t take any serious damage.   
  
He ran past Macklin, saw his mouth gaping, and continued on towards the road, Doyle still following. This was getting ridiculous, it was. Doyle deserved to be punched to the ground. But the growing conviction that Doyle’s gulping sounds meant tears kept him from it. They also kept him from trying to take a peek at Doyle’s face. It was damned awkward running from a crazy man. It was worse if that man was crying while he tried to hit you.  
  
On the other hand, he couldn’t run forever.   
  
He timed his moment, till he heard Doyle stumble and then whirled on him, caught his arm and pressed it up in the middle of his back, as Doyle had done to him the other day. Doyle gave a yelp. He began to tremble all over.   
  
“Easy sunshine. Back to base,” said Bodie, and marched him back towards Macklin, who was just pulling up on his motorbike. He parked, and took a keen look at both men.   
  
“That’s easily the worst teamwork I have ever seen. Bodie, you’re done for the day. Go home. Doyle, come here.”  
  
Bodie released his erstwhile partner and Doyle walked towards Macklin, still gasping and gulping. Macklin caught his arm and Doyle stood there wretchedly in his grip. Macklin pushed up one of his eyelids and looked at him, closely. “Just a little shock. You’ll be all right.” He took off his jacket and made Doyle put it on. “Bodie, I said go home!” he repeated, seeing Bodie still staring at him. Reluctantly, Bodie turned to go back to pick up his car. He glanced back to see Macklin climb back on his bike, then Doyle behind him, one arm tentatively round him to hold on. “Tighter than that, lad. It’s all right,” said Macklin, and started riding.  
  
Macklin had a tender side? Bodie went home feeling disturbed by that as much as anything.   
  
Doyle had just... exploded. He must be mad. Shaking his head, Bodie undressed, showered, put on clean clothes, and went out for a drink. By the time the third person asked him where he’d got the scratches on his face, he was pissed off with Doyle again.   
  
The thing just didn’t make any sense. He’d lost his rag, but then he’d seemed to lose his mind as well. First punching at Bodie and then trying to get free as though he were mad and chasing Bodie down without a shred of sanity left him.   
  
He’d been angry because Bodie grabbed him hard after he’d grabbed Bodie hard. And certainly from the difficulty of the course. Fine and well. But then he’d...  
  
Oh.   
  
After Bodie fell on top of him. That was when he’d lost it.   
  
He remembered again the way Doyle had shivered undercover, trembling not just from the cold. How utterly convincing he’d been.  
  
Oh no. That didn’t really happen, did it? Not to policemen.   
  
Maybe when he was younger. Maybe...maybe Bodie had brought it all back for him, whatever happened to him. Hurt him all over again.  
  
 _Trying to save your life, sunshine,_ argued Bodie mentally. But he knew the battle was lost. Now he knew why Doyle couldn’t forgive him or shrug it off.   
  
Why, it must’ve been hell having to walk around for the last few weeks and pretend he didn’t know they were laughingly calling him Vicky the Victim.  
  
How did you live with that, if you knew it was true? And if somebody hurt you that way again later—or threatened to—and then expected you to be grateful?   
  
_If I was Doyle, I wouldn’t want anything to do with me, either._ He drained the last of his lager and left the pub.  
  
Bodie was not a man who suffered often from guilt. You made the best decision you could with the information you had, and you lived with the results—whatever they were. But once in a while... and if it seemed truly deserved—Bodie had been known to feel guilty. And when he did, he wanted to do something about it, not just leave it and hope it went away on its own.  
  
He got back in his car and drove to CI5 HQ. It was busy, humming, active, even at this time of night. Bodie suppressed a yawn—it had been a hard day of training—and walked up with studied casualness and confidence to Betty’s desk.  
  
“Have you seen Macklin?”  
  
“Macklin? He came by with Doyle just a short time ago. They went into Cowley’s office. I’ve not seen either emerge.”  
  
“Ta, Betty,” said Bodie. He swallowed hard and went to Cowley’s office. He hesitated at the door. Could hear Doyle’s voice inside, extremely stressed.  
  
“I would like to be part of CI5,” he said in a carefully controlled voice. “I’ll do better. I would like to try again—even with Bodie, sir.”  
  
“I’m sure you would, Doyle, but I’ll not have instability on my team.”  
  
“But what about Tommy?” said Doyle, who obviously had no idea when to shut up.  
  
Bodie winced and knocked quickly, then entered just as Cowley said “Enter!”  
  
“Hullo sir.”   
  
“Bodie.” Cowley gave him a sour look, not oblivious to the fact that he’d entered without really waiting to be asked.   
  
Bodie smiled and stood at attention. “Permission to speak, sir?” He always got more military when he was nervous.  
  
“And what will you do if I say no, Bodie? Yes, go ahead, man.”  
  
“Thank you, sir. I’d like to try again. It’s my own fault about Doyle. Won’t happen again, sir.”  
  
Doyle turned round green eyes on him and gaped. Macklin looked startled. Even Cowley seemed surprised.  
  
“So, if you’ll give us both a day off, we’ll patch it up and go back and be the best team you’ve got.”  
  
Doyle’s mouth was hanging open. He closed it, blinked several times.  
  
“Doyle?” asked Cowley. “Have you any objections?” He sounded as though he was trying to be stern but secretly felt amused.  
  
“No sir.”  
  
“Then request granted. On your bikes. And report to Macklin bright and early the day after tomorrow.”  
  
He shooed them out, and picked up a file, eyed it.  
  
#  
  
Doyle followed Bodie from the room, looking dazed.   
  
“Go for a drink, sunshine?” asked Bodie brightly.  
  
“Uh—all right.”  
  
“D’you want to take your own car, or shall I drive?”   
  
“Um—I’ll drive.” He went to his car and followed Bodie to the pub.  
  
Bodie brought him a round, and they settled in a quiet corner. Bodie took the inside seat and let Doyle have the end so he could get out easily if he wanted to.  
  
He wasn’t quite certain how to begin, but Doyle looked so lost it made it a bit easier.   
  
Doyle looked at his drink, and took a slurp of it. It left a foam moustache on his upper lip, and he swiped it distractedly with the back of his hand. “Why the change of heart?” he asked, in rather a croak.   
  
“Well, be honest sunshine, it was my fault. Didn’t want you kicked out because of me.”  
  
“But...” Doyle still sounded at sea. “I lost me rag. You didn’t.”  
  
“I was too realistic undercover,” said Bodie firmly. “Scared you.”  
  
Doyle’s gaze flew to his face, alarmed.   
  
Bodie gulped some lager for courage. “I thought you were good at acting. But actually, I just really scared you. I’m sorry. I played it too rough. Didn’t realise. Won’t happen again.”  
  
Doyle looked at him searchingly. He seemed confused, vulnerable, distrustful and a little angry—but most of all bewildered.   
  
“We’ll get through training. I’ll show you I can be trusted enough for that. And then you’ll be in this mob, if you want to be, and we’ll be even. All right?”  
  
Doyle nodded. “Thanks.” He looked down at his lager, turned the tankard around on the wooden table, and then looked up and met Bodie’s gaze. “Thanks for saving my life.”  
  
The humble gratitude in his eyes made Bodie smile. “Anytime, mate. But I’ll do it better, next time.” He clapped a hand on the back of Doyle’s shoulders. He remembered the other thing with Doyle’s slight start and removed his hand, sobering. “We’re gonna fix that, sunshine,” he promised. “Because I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”  
  
Doyle turned rounded, questioning eyes on him, and took another slurp of his lager. He didn’t look exactly as though he believed Bodie, but he looked willing to listen.  
  
#  
  
Bodie could be entirely charming when he wanted to be. That evening, and the next day, he chose to be. He told anecdotes about life in CI5, shared their secret nickname for Cowley (“the Cow”) that you must never, ever say in front of him. He told his best jokes, drew Doyle out and listened with a look of interest to the fragments of his history that he cautiously shared. He teased Doyle gently. He got him drunk enough to relax, drove him to his home, the address mumbled sleepily by Doyle, and dropped him off, promising to pick him up for breakfast the next day. Doyle seemed to be accepting his overtures of peace, and that was good. He figured it wouldn’t last long so he’d better make the best of it and work on fixing things with Doyle while the slender man let him.  
  
He rose early and went to pick up Doyle, bought him breakfast, full English, and smiled at his glower. “I usually go running,” said Doyle reluctantly, after he’d finished his sausages, slurped half of his coffee and grown a bit more talkative.   
  
“Well, you’ll be running more than you want to tomorrow, sunshine. I’d suggest taking it easy.”  
  
Doyle took another slurp. “Yeeahh,” he agreed at last. Then his green eyes rose, and met Bodie’s gaze. “Why all this bother? Couldn’t wait to be rid of me yesterday.”  
  
“Saw the error of me ways. And you’re such a charmer,” he teased, smirking.  
  
Doyle rolled his eyes and dug into his food.   
  
“Not even a smile? So I thought we’d take in a film at the cinema, drive around a bit, go to the park, do a few errands—dunno about you, but I need to do me washing—have some drinks and basically become good mates. We’ve got slightly less than twenty-four hours before we’re back with Macklin, and I want us to be a well-oiled machine. Sooner we are, sooner we’ll be through training.”  
  
“And you’ll be shot of me?” asked Doyle suspiciously, peering over his nearly empty coffee cup. He looked so scruffy and cautious and round-faced and raggedy that Bodie couldn’t help smiling.  
  
“Nah. Be rid of Macklin, won’t I? I don’t mind you,” he said in a burst of generosity that he meant, at least at the moment. Doyle was indeed being quite human since their apology-and-thank-you session.   
  
“Cowley won’t keep us teamed forever, will he?”  
  
“Hardly likely, sunshine.” Bodie dug into his sausages with abandon. “So _you’ll_ be shot of _me._ ”  
  
“You really think we can work together? I mean, after yesterday?”  
  
“Don’t see why not. Just got to teach you to trust me. I’m not going to hurt you again, so it shouldn’t be hard.” He met the cautious, distrustful, wary green gaze, and smiled benignly. “Now eat up, and we’ll have a fun day, sunshine. Got you a day off, didn’t I?”  
  
They ate; they ran errands; they saw a film (Doyle’s choice), and had drinks.   
  
Bodie drove to the park, and they walked around it once, Bodie being jolly and cheerful and teasing, pointing out trees and pretending to be very knowledgeable about them. (“The great Quill Brush Tree! Native of New Zealand and Antarctica!”) He got Doyle laughing a bit and getting into it with his own tree names almost reluctantly, and finally Bodie had them both in hysterics by pointing to one final specimen, raising his eyebrows knowledgably and pronouncing it, “A tree!”   
  
They had fish and chips, then ice cream. Bodie asked if Doyle liked to play darts, and told him about the dart board at CI5 and that he, Bodie, was the absolute, undisputed champion. He said it blandly, with a big smile, daring Doyle to disbelieve him. He could see his charm had worked, that Doyle wasn’t so much afraid of him as laughing at him and with him, and maybe reluctantly thinking of him almost as a mate.   
  
It hadn’t taken long. Bodie’s charm was like that, he thought with a smug inward smile. But now was the time when he would see if it paid off.  
  
It was evening by then. He drove to the off licence and bought a bottle of whisky. Good stuff, the kind Cowley liked. He told Doyle all about that on the way back to Doyle’s home, chatting, keeping him occupied. Doyle was coming out of his shell quite a lot, with questions and jokes and guffaws, and sometimes acting quite disbelieving of Bodie’s more ridiculous anecdotes, to Bodie’s hurt protestations that “it’s all true, mate.”  
  
A good day.   
  
When he bounded up the steps after Doyle, holding the whisky bottle, his new mate turned and put a hand on his chest. “You’re following me.”  
  
“Whisky,” said Bodie, holding up the bottle.   
  
“It’s not for Cowley?”   
  
“Nah, if I start buying him booze he’ll start expecting it!”  
  
“And I won’t?” Doyle looked reluctantly amused.  
  
“Ah, well, your tastes aren’t really as expensive, are they? Be a mate, get your glasses.”  
  
“I don’t wear ‘glasses,’” said Doyle, and laughed at his own goofy joke. Bodie reached after him and scrubbed his curls. Doyle ducked away, brushing his hand off but not stiffening up.  
  
Bodie congratulated himself on passing the first test with flying colours.   
  
Over the whisky, and a few more silly words exchanged between them, he broached the most important subject. That Doyle had to be okay with being touched, in case they ended up in another test by Macklin that required it.  
  
Doyle’s eyes immediately grew shuttered and suspicious. “What do you mean, mate?”  
  
“What do you think I mean? Suppose they set us to wrestle. Can you handle it, if you end up pinned?”  
  
Doyle’s eyes sparked green and angry. “I don’t know what you mean, _Bodie._ ” He said Bodie’s name very angrily indeed, swirled his whisky and downed it. He poured himself another, glaring at Bodie, daring him to say something.  
  
Bodie waited till he’d had another drink, and then smiled. “I mean, do I still scare you? We’ve got to find out before there’s trouble about it. You’re my partner now, at least for the tests.”  
  
“I’m not scared of you,” snapped Doyle.  
  
“Of course not. Consciously, of course not. But I was rough with you, there’s no denying it. I suppose I deserve your distrust, mate, but it won’t help us survive the tests. So we’ve got to set some of our own. Test it, like.”  
  
“Test it?” spat Doyle. “What’s that supposed to mean? You want to start touching me and see if I—if I flinch?”  
  
Bodie looked at him. “Yes.”  
  
Doyle digested it. “Well, touching me where? The arm? Go ahead. Try.” He held it out, daring Bodie, disgusted with him.   
  
“All right, sunshine.” He reached out and enclosed his hand around Doyle’s slim, hairy arm. Doyle couldn’t quite control the quick jerk away from him, startled muscles trying to contain fear. “That’s all right, sunshine,” he said quietly, opening his hand and releasing it.  
  
Doyle stared down at his betraying arm and then up at Bodie. “But I’m not scared of you. I can beat you, I know I can.”  
  
Bodie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you can or not, mate. What you need to know is that I’ll back off if you need me to.” He finished his whisky for strength, and set the glass down with finality. “So that’s the game—I touch you. Nothing serious. If it bothers you, tell me to stop, and I do. Won’t take long, nothing sexual, nothing we wouldn’t have to deal with for Macklin or just being around each other for the next week. No big deal. When your subconscious starts to realise I back off anytime you say, always, you’ll relax. You know I’m not going to hurt you—that knowledge just has to go inside.” He felt very clever for having come up with this speech. It was mild enough to conceal the fact that he knew Doyle was afraid—and afraid of being sexually molested—and it held enough of a dare that Doyle wouldn’t be able to refuse, unless Bodie had completely misread him. He kept his face mild and friendly, facing Doyle.  
  
Doyle looked like he had a dozen arguments, but none he cared to voice. He didn’t look entirely pleased about it, though. “Suppose you’re right,” he said finally. He poured another drink as though he needed it and swallowed it in a gulp. “Right. Have to start with wrestling, I suppose?”  
  
“Can start slower, sunshine, if you want.”  
  
“There’s a rug in the other room. Will be better for wrestling.” He got up and trailed in there. Indeed, it was a thick brown rug.  
  
“Is it clean?” Bodie wrinkled his nose.  
  
Doyle laughed, a not entirely happy sound. “What do you care?” He wrapped his arms round himself, then seemed to realise he’d done it, and let go. “Let’s just get th-this over with.”  
  
And Bodie knew he’d gone too fast. He jerked his head towards the couch, and plopped onto it. Doyle stared at him, and after a moment joined him cautiously on the other end. Bodie reached out, and touched his arm with his forefinger. Doyle flinched.  
  
“It’s all right,” said Bodie. “I’m not hurting you. It didn’t hurt. See?” He touched again, lightly, let his finger rest longer.   
  
Doyle’s skin moved like a horse with a fly on it. “Bodie—”  
  
“You just say ‘stop,’” said Bodie, removing his finger instantly. He smiled at Doyle, held his gaze and put all his charm into his expression, reassuring, gentle, being the “cuddly” Bodie. He’d received the nickname once of ‘Cuddly Killer’ because he could be both. He consciously used that now to make himself seem safer for Doyle, approachable and comfortable.  
  
At length Doyle’s gaze left his, and he relaxed a bit, shrugging. “I’m being stupid. If you want to do this, do it. Only tell me, first, what and why.”  
  
“Of course, sunshine. I’m touching your arm to get your attention. You say stop and I’ll stop. I don’t want to frighten you. I’m touching your arm now.” He kept his voice gentle, and his hand light, a kind of pat, very gentle, removed quickly. Doyle’s eyes flickered an instant, but he was all right. He seemed to be feeling stronger now. He watched Bodie, listened to him, his patter and explanation, watched each touch, flinched from some, endured others, and sometimes said “Stop!” in a harsh voice.  
  
Bodie always stopped. He kept up his talk, like he was gentling a shy horse. “That’s all right, sunshine. You’re doing fine,” he said when he saw Doyle shiver convulsively. “That’s just fine. You want a break? You want a drink?”  
  
“Bodie,” said Doyle, ignoring his question, eyes troubled, deep wells of worry. “You’re not—you’re not seducing me, are you? Because I don’t—”  
  
“No worries, I don’t either, mate. Remember if something does make you uncomfortable just say ‘stop.’”   
  
He worked his way up to a grip on the shoulder, held it till Doyle told him to stop.   
  
“That’s fine, sunshine. That was really good.” He got up and went to the kitchen, returned with another glass of whisky for each of them. He put Doyle’s into his hand. Their fingers touched lightly, and he withdrew.   
  
It was like a seduction in some ways, this what he was doing for Doyle. Only he wasn’t trying to get anything but some trust. If they had longer, he could earn it another way. But he didn’t know if they would have longer if he didn’t have it by tomorrow.  
  
They drank. “Now,” said Bodie. “We wrestle.” He plopped down on the rug and smiled up at Doyle, relaxed and open, vulnerable. “But not for real,” he added, stretching his arms over his head, limbering up, smiling. “Just a few different moves, slow like for teaching. See how you handle it. You first. Put me in a headlock, sunshine. Don’t hurt me.”  
  
Doyle hesitated, then caught him in a tight but not punishing grip. Bodie stayed still in it, relaxed, trusting him. “Enough, sunshine?” he asked.  
  
“Yeah,” said Doyle, after a moment. He released Bodie.  
  
“Now pin me.”  
  
Doyle pinned him, and Bodie didn’t fight or resist, let himself be held down, watching Doyle calmly, showing by body and look that he was in Doyle’s power and it didn’t frighten him. “All right?” he asked after a few moments. Doyle seemed both very present and very far away, as if he was thinking hard about something, and something was changing for him, opening up, healing.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” said Doyle, letting him up, distracted and quiet.   
  
“That’s all right, then,” said Bodie, getting up, dusting off from the horrible rug.   
  
Doyle’s head came up. “Not...?”  
  
It had been an important test, but now it came time for it, Bodie didn’t want to go through with it if it would upset Doyle. He seemed like this had helped him. Bodie didn’t want to undo that.  
  
“It’s up to you, sunshine.” He stopped, suddenly. “Oh, wait. You didn’t want me to call you that, did you?”  
  
Doyle shrugged. “It’s all right, now. It’s just a word. You’re not saying it like you were then.” He looked like he wanted to say something more, but it was too awkward for him.  
  
Bodie grinned. “Great! Hard word to stop saying, you know.” He clapped Doyle on the shoulder and was pleased to see him not even flinch or look concerned. “You’ll do great, you know. If it does come up—wrestling, me pinning you—just remember I’m never going to hurt you again, and I’ll stop if you say stop. Remember that.”  
  
Doyle nodded.   
  
“Good lad.” He removed his hand.  
  
“But Bodie. You won’t let me win, will you? I mean, I can beat you. I know I can. I don’t want to win because you let me.”  
  
Standing in the middle of the brown rug, looking uncertain and a bit tipsy, there was something strangely endearing about that battered, round, earnest face.   
  
“I won’t,” promised Bodie. Someday, he knew he would love to test his strength against this man with no holds barred. Someday, he’d be able to wrestle Doyle full strength and find out who would win.   
  
Today, it was a win just to be able to teach him a small measure of trust. Or perhaps, he thought, looking into those deep eyes, so green and clear, it was a very large measure indeed. Doyle still seemed to show all his emotions in his eyes.  
  
Bodie smiled at him. “Want to finish the whisky or save it?”  
  
“Oh, is there any left?” asked Doyle. He looked mildly interested.  
  
“You’ve had enough, haven’t you? Let’s save it to celebrate finishing with Macklin.”  
  
“Yeeahh,” said Doyle, dragging the word out. He looked at Bodie, and Bodie looked at him. Something had happened between them, silent and unobtrusive and almost holy, not something you could put into words. It seemed too important to break with a quick goodbye.   
  
But night was moving on, Macklin waited in the morning, and they both needed their beauty sleep.  
  
“See you,” said Bodie. “Tomorrow.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Doyle, and saw him to the door. “Thanks,” he said, and his gratitude showed clearly. “For the whisky,” he added quickly, in case Bodie should get any ideas about the whole gentling process mattering to him, or helping him in any way.  
  
Bodie smiled. “’Course. See you, sunshine.” He reached out and ruffled Doyle’s curls. Doyle almost smiled.  
  
Bodie took the steps down to his car two at a time, heart light.   
  
Everything had changed, somehow.   
  
Just like his last guilt trip. That time, he’d abandoned the mercenary life and joined the army. This time, he’d acquired a Doyle. The whole temporary partners thing might be not so temporary after all. But whatever happened, he was never going to give Doyle cause to distrust him again. He was going to build on this foundation till it was rock solid, till Doyle trusted his hands the same as his own, till he’d made him forget pain and betrayal and walk in confidence every day, no matter what.  
  
Because Doyle was, after all—his. Somehow or other, they belonged together now.   
  
Even though Bodie didn’t give his loyalty easily or often, he found he’d given it to Doyle, and not just from guilt. It surprised him to realise it, but he felt that everything was going to be all right.  
  
Of course, that could be the whisky talking.   
  
All the same, he whistled on his way home and slept well that night, dreaming of a warm green pair of eyes that trusted him and were right to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Epilogue  
  
  
  
He had been sprung from jail, just as planned. Brody found himself free on the street, hopping into the getaway vehicle. Its tyres squealed as it accelerated away. He pulled himself towards the front of the van and peered round at the driver, wondering who had got him out on such short notice. Everything had gone just like clockwork. It had to be someone powerful—a professional.   
  
“Malone?” he guessed, holding onto the seat as the van swung round a corner. There was another man in the passenger seat carrying a rifle, looking really grim and dangerous even with a ski mask on.  
  
“He hired us,” said a clipped voice of the driver, a voice that sounded somehow familiar.  
  
“Where are we going then?” asked Brody.  
  
“Somewhere safe,” said the passenger with evil, undisguised glee. He ripped his mask off and grinned round at Brody, showing him the business end of the gun.   
  
Brody’s mouth fell open. It was him—the copper with the broken cheekbone and curly hair. The one Bodie had—  
  
“You—you can’t be here!” He whirled to look at the driver, heart pounding. “I’ll never tell anything....”  
  
“’Course you won’t, mate,” said the driver in soothing, mocking tones. He pulled his mask off.   
  
“Bodie?” asked Brody, feeling more confused than ever.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me. I work for another mob now. They want this bloke—Malone, you say? Shouldn’t be hard to find him, now we’ve got your help.”  
  
“But you haven’t, I...” He licked his lips. “You can’t get away with this.”  
  
“You’ve busted out of jail, mate. We can do whatever we want... keep you locked up forever, if we want.”  
  
“Suppose he’ll talk, eventually, don’t you, Bodie?” The copper looked past Brody to the driver. His eyes held none of the fear from before.  
  
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Brody, determined to fall back on ignorance. “Who’s ‘Malone?’”  
  
Bodie tsk’d. “Aw, mate, you can do better than that!”  
  
“Yeah,” said Doyle. “You’ll tell us. We’ll keep you locked up till you do.”  
  
“Supposing I don’t? I never told any of that other mob.”  
  
“Then we’ll set you loose. Won’t we, Bodie?”  
  
“Yeah. And we’ll let it be known you have told.”  
  
“Sung like a canary.” The copper gave a raucous laugh.  
  
“And they’ll put you back in jail....”  
  
“And what do you want to bet this Malone character has a very long arm....”  
  
“Fifty pee,” said Bodie.  
  
The copper laughed. “One pound and you’re on.”  
  
Brody stared back and forth between the two, beginning to feel that he was a ball in a game of very athletic squash; they wouldn’t mind beating him around in the process.   
  
Brody sank back to the back of the van, his mind reeling. He’d held out so well. Against the police, MI5, even someone from CI5 named Cowley. Everything had been going so well. And now....  
  
He made up his mind. “All right. I’ll talk.”  
  
“Pay up, Bodie. He’ll talk before we find out about the long arm.”  
  
“No, mate, we’ll find out once we bring Malone in, see. And then _you’ll_ pay up, sunshine.”  
  
“No, you will. But cover lunch and I’ll let you off the hook.”  
  
“Nah, mate, it’s your turn.”  
  
“Toss you for it.”  
  
Brody put his head in his hands. “I’ll pay you both if you shut up.” He needed to _think_! It didn’t make any sense, none of it! They’d let him rot in jail for months, then let him think he’d escaped cleanly, only to spring this on him? “You were mates all along. But how—”  
  
“No,” said Doyle, a millisecond faster than Bodie. They glanced at one another. “Not all along. But we are now.”  
  
Then the copper grinned a crooked-toothed grin. He pointed one long finger at Brody. “But you’re lucky, mate. Once you’ve sung like a canary your sentence will be reduced.”  
  
“And no escape for you this time!” Bodie wrenched the van cheerfully right around a corner. Tyres screamed. Brakes squealed. Horns honked.  
  
“Hang about,” said Doyle. “Why are you still driving like there’s a fire?”  
  
“Complete the illusion,” said Bodie, grinning, eyes on the road.  
  
Brody was beginning to think it would be quite nice to be back in the calm, quiet jail.  
  
  
  
  
  
<<<>>>


End file.
